


Date and Time

by hanwritessolo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-12 18:11:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18015821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanwritessolo/pseuds/hanwritessolo
Summary: Ardyn is not an easy man to love. He never was. All you know is that every bone in your body aches to do anything for him—even if it means taking a proposition from a Messenger of Bahamut to travel back in time for his sake, and a chance to set things right.





	1. Present

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ValkyrieofArdyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValkyrieofArdyn/gifts).



It is the end of a tragic tale. At least, that’s what it all feels like. The decrepit walls of the Citadel stand witness to your devastation. How awfully apt, to be so broken in an equally broken place.

Frankly, you have yourself to blame. The only fool wandering around these empty, sordid halls is you. You hope the ghosts of Lucian kings curse to your shameful sorrow. What a sight it must be to see an ex-Imperial general who had the misfortune of falling in love with their forgotten Lucian royalty. A lamentation seems to be a fitting consolation. All those months of searching every corner of Niflheim and Altissia and Lucis, dedicating all of your resources with nary to waste for one Ardyn Izunia—or Ardyn _Lucis Caelum,_ which, for fuck’s sake, his true name still rolls strangely at the tip of your tongue—only to find out the dastardly deeds of his past. Though that is not as shocking when he tells you that you never meant anything to him. Perhaps you should go back to the throne room and plead Ardyn to kill you instead. Death seems infinitely sweeter a punishment than a broken heart. He should have just stabbed you with a sword right through your chest, instead of leaving you with the ruthless words _I do not love you, and I never will._

You cannot help but look back at the time you have spent with him, and the sweet memory of it is a sharp ache that bleeds you dry. How can you have possibly believed that a man such as Ardyn would be so capable to return your affection? He is neither a saint nor a pilgrim. Even at his best, he is not an easy man. He claims he is a monster of his creation, and yet you have chosen not to see the worst in him.

Love can really turn the smartest of men into the dumbest of fools.

You march down the steps of the Citadel, forcing yourself not to turn back around. There is nothing left for you in the ruins of Insomnia, nothing left in the raging chaos that has veiled Eos to perpetual night. The darkness hums. In the silence, time ticks forward. Only the quiet minutes hear your helpless plea as you say, _Take me back, take me back, take me back._

 

* * *

 

It is the eve of the departure for the signing ceremony when you find Ardyn outside your doorstep. In a heartbeat, he pins you back against the wall, the door to your quarters slams shut in shameless violence. A bang that seems to purposely croon an echo that says, _Let them hear us._ He stares down at you, and you stare back. The moment of silence bears a heavy challenge.

So you let go of any rational thought as your fingers thread through his hair; a slow sweep, and then that sharp tug. A bold move for someone like you, if you dare say so yourself. But at this point, you know how much he likes it. And he lets you know how much when his lips find the crook of your neck, hungry and greedy and desperate for every inch of your skin.

“I’m assuming you had a difficult day with His Imperial Majesty?” you say, stifling a moan that hitches its way out of your mouth.

“Not as difficult as _you,_ my dear,” he whispers against your ear. “Now be a darling and help me get you out of this horrible armour.”

You do not oblige. Instead, your hands first make its way to unbutton _his_ shirt, and he watches you with sheer pleasure as you tug him out of his coat and every layer of his clothing, one after the next. But Ardyn never lets you get ahead. His own hands respond in kind when he begins to do just the same. He has done this way too many times that he already knows each belt and buckle to unfasten. The pauldrons slip, the cuirass drops, the armour unravels. A sharp _clang_ meets the hardwood floor, a sound that now bellows an invitation: _Let us put on a show._

But frankly, this is hardly a show. If anything, this has always been a competition neither of you are winning. As far as you are concerned, this was only supposed to be a one night affair. Nothing more. You know very well how this would jeopardize your position as the Brigadier General in the Imperial Army.

And of all the people to have these amorous trysts with, you just had to pick the Chancellor of Niflheim.

You brush your thumb across his bottom lip. “So much for being discreet, aren’t we?”

Ardyn says nothing, but the sultry smirk on his face speaks volumes. He only propels you to your bed, pushing you back against the sheets, peeling you off from the rest of your garments, piece by urgent piece. In that moment, whatever formalities or gentlemanly grace he possesses, he no longer bears it. He lays it all at your feet. You watch him as he kneels before you, spreading your legs apart, pressing kisses on your inner thighs. The heat of his breath lingers on your skin.

“If only these fools could hear you like _this,”_ he says, as he finally dips a finger inside you, one that he matches with the clever movement of his mouth.

Your voice cracks to a helpless whimper, your body wilts into his touch. On and on, he curls his fingers in and out, circling at a blinding pace; his tongue, rough and hungry for your taste. This man has only known you for months, and yet he has mastered all the tricks to make you bend into his will. He wields this knowledge of you like a blade, whetted sharply for your pleasures. Gods forbid, you know how he is determined to use this against you until you sing his name over and over—

“Ardyn, _please._ Inside me. _Now.”_ The command leaves you in an exhausted moan as you struggle to pull yourself up, your hand catching a fistful of his hair.

He pulls away, positively amused. He takes your hand, nibbles at the base of your palm. A devilish smile crosses his face. “I can’t quite hear you, my dear—“

“I’m bloody _serious,”_ you say with an impatient groan, “I’m going to kill you if you don’t—“

“Now, General—let’s not resort to violence, shall we?” Ardyn hauls himself up, settles his body between your legs, but he does not heed your command. Yet. Instead, he hovers over you, treading the landscape of your flesh with teasing, open-mouthed kisses. He cruises the wave of your waist, the valley of your breasts, the ridge of your collarbones. He sinks his teeth at the skin on your neck when he spreads you even wider, pushing himself inside you.

With bated breath, a gasp breaks out of your lips, while your name spills on his in a breathless chant. Your legs lock around his waist as the tempo of his thrusts grow into a maddening rhythm. The beat of his hips against yours is nothing less intoxicating. Night after night, you realize that this is how the two of you make music: dipped in a passionate fire, both artist and arsonist, each grunt and groan a melody meant to be burned into memory. And you want this. You have always wanted this, and you have always wanted _him._

All spent and sated, Ardyn crashes on the bed, his body on top of yours. He rolls on his back and takes you along with him. You rest your head on his chest, still catching your breath. For a moment, you let the silence linger; you find yourself drawn to the uneven sound of his heartbeat when he says, “I hope you don’t mind if I stay over.”

His suggestion startles you that you sit up in an instant, dragging the sheets up to your chest. “I beg your pardon but—what? Why?”

“What do you mean why?” Ardyn props himself up by his elbows. “I just want to, is all.”

“But you never stay over. It’s always fuck and go, remember?”

“You make it sound like what we have is a terrible arrangement.” Ardyn laughs, taking your hand in his. “Surely we can make minor amendments to that?”

The way he calls this as simple as an _arrangement_ slightly stings that you pull your hand away from him. A strange expression passes over his face. You eye him warily, one eyebrow raised with suspicion. “But why?” you ask again.

Ardyn sighs. “Is it so terribly inappropriate for me to want more than just to fornicate and would prefer wanting some amiable company for a night?”

“Really _—fornicate?”_ You stifle a bubbling laughter. Sometimes, Ardyn’s choice of words in his day to day vernacular can be oddly archaic, one that you find strangely amusing. “I can’t decide if you’re painfully formal or simply too old.”

“I’d say both,” Ardyn admits noncommittally. “I am a very old man, after all.”

“Well, you certainly do not fuck like one.”

“My, how vulgar. So—“ he pulls you back to his chest that you squeal in surprise— “shall I take that as a yes?”

You hold his gaze a little longer than you should. The logical part of you begs for you to say _No, leave me be, let’s end this here before it turns into something else._ The fear of that _something else_ torches your throat dry. Because the truth is, what should have ended after one evening of an _arrangement_ have already spiraled into weeks and months in your bed—or his, if you count the rare occasions he has let you in his personal bedchamber. One night should have been enough. It never should have gotten this far. It never should have ended up with this night where you punctuate the insignificance of this nameless affair by considering if he could stay over, not when the real question you should be asking is if he could stay in your _life—_

“Only for tonight,” you say quickly, sealing the deal with a feathery kiss, as if hoping the gesture will dismiss the troublesome train of thought away.

But had you known the circumstances that lie ahead, you would have done things a little bit differently. Perhaps, you would have kissed him harder. You would have let him stayed without any reservation. You would have permitted yourself to indulge this short time you had together. You would have said the things you have always wanted to say, and then you would not have spent the next months tormented with regret.

 

* * *

 

It is the eve of his departure. Still, even on a night like this, being with you never fails to make Ardyn a little ill at ease with a troublesome thought. What makes it particularly troublesome is that it is as nebulous as a foggy day in Gralea; he struggles to grasp the right words to shape his restlessness into meaning. One might say that it is a strange occurrence for a man such as Ardyn, who takes pride in his own eloquence, who is always charmingly articulate, the sort of fellow who never minces his words. But this predicament of his holds his vocabulary hostage. What he knows for a certainty that this has everything to do with _you._

If Ardyn were to be honest—and mind you, he somehow considers himself quite an _honest_ man, heavens forbid—he would admit that the only reason why he wanted to stay over is to be with you. Not to _fuck—_ as you would so casually put it—but to simply relish each other’s company. And if he were to be _really_ honest, he would also admit that he adores the smallest of things about you. Best believe he is drawn by the scent of your hair, the sound of your laughter, your clever mouth sharpened by your wit, and the sweet taste of your kiss that beckons a strong desire to be closer to you. He does not understand why these things seem to matter to him. All he knows is that a vague longing in him stirs. A burning need for you seethes. Would it be so wrong of him to watch over you while you sleep, to hold you in his arms for a night?

Perhaps the object of his restlessness is less of a thought and more of a _feeling._

And perhaps it bothers him so because it has been a long while since Ardyn _felt_ things.

A _long while_ would be a gross understatement for all those countless millennia. All those years—those wretched immortal years—Ardyn has long abandoned the notion of affection, intimacy a concept that no longer bears any meaning. He is now a foreigner to trivial things such as these. He has been far too accustomed to the company of his emptiness, of anger and fury, of cold indifference. This is all that he has left.

And yet, with you…

Ardyn heaves a sharp sigh. He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear as he watches the steady rhythm of your breaths, the rise and fall of your chest. He presses a kiss on your forehead before he gets dressed, leaving you in this lonesome night without another word.

 

* * *

 

A woman is standing at the end of the Citadel steps that you are almost convinced that the ghosts of Lucian royalties of yore have answered your call. But the woman appears neither royal nor ghostly; she looks plain as any old civilian, white hair and pale face and all.

“Who are you? And what are you doing here?” you ask, purely out of concern. In the midst of the darkness, her eyes are piercing blue, and you slowly notice the quiet boldness that emanates from her graceful face. “It’s dangerous to be out here on your own—”

“You came here for Ardyn, have you not?”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what if I have?”

“Then I have come to seek the right person,” the woman says unsmilingly.

“What do you mean? Who are you?” you ask again, firmly holding her gaze. Far ahead, a gust of wind billows.

“A Messenger of the Bladekeeper,” the woman answers. “You can call me Johanna. And I’m here because I want to ask you a favour.”

You cast her a wary and an immensely suspicious glance. You must say, you admire her boldness to come this far on her own with a _favour,_ but also for her ridiculous claim to be a Messenger of the Gods. And of _Bahamut,_ even.

“So, _Messenger of the Bladekeeper,”_ you repeat as you circle Johanna, studying her from head to foot, “how can a mortal such as myself possibly help you? You, who have all the power at your disposal?”

“You have every right to doubt my intentions,” says Johanna tactfully, unflinching. “But you and I are after the same person. I am also here for Ardyn, but not in the same way you are here for him. I cared for that child before he was a man grown, and I have been far too complacent—and complicit—to the will of the gods had in store for him. I will carry that shame in all my immortal days.”

“So what now?” you challenge, folding your arms over your chest. “You seek to defy the gods to save _that_ lonely man who sits on the throne without a kingdom to rule over? Is that it?”

“Indeed. Whatever punishment the gods have for me, I am prepared to pay the price.” Her voice is strong and sharp, and unsettlingly so. “And I am certain that you, too, would do the same for him.”

You consider Johanna for a moment.  “And what would you have me do?”

The expression on Johanna’s face remains blank with expression. “I’m afraid we have to go back to the very beginning,” she says, and the last thing you hear is the snap of her fingers before the world shifts to a blinding white.

 


	2. Past

 

 

A stifling heat slowly drags you awake. Eyes half shut, a jarring myriad of colours dance before you. A kaleidoscope of blue, green, yellow. Your surroundings unravel little by little: lush, massive trees, a vibrant foliage, the glade of sylleblossoms. The gentle breeze whistles past. A hush chorus of birdsong lifts through the air. Overhead, the canopy of leaves welcome a bright morning, basking the forest in glorious sunlight...

A shot of panic seizes you. You haul yourself up, but you stagger with a sudden, throbbing pain. You press a palm against your temple and you feel the bandage that has been wrapped around your head. Frantically, you survey the area—closely this time, despite the splitting headache—and you immediately snap into focus. Behind you, an extinguished bonfire rests in its ashes, and a cloth bag sits by the foot of a weeping willow tree. There is no one else around.

But all that aside, one thing remains clear as this bizarre, sunny day: This is definitely not the Lucis that you know of, nor is it anywhere close to the woodlands of Tenebrae, or even then remote jungles of Galahd. You have been almost _everywhere,_ and considering your exceptionally clear memory, you know very well that the whole world has been plunged into darkness. There isn’t supposed to be sunlight, or any sort of _light_ for that matter. And before you got knocked out of consciousness, if you take your exceptionally clear memory into account, the last thing you recall is a snap, and—

“Johanna!” you yell, and your voice echoes all throughout the meadow that you startle a flock of birds into a sudden flight. If this is all her doing, then gods have mercy on you for ever doubting (and possibly pissing off) a bloody Messenger, of all people. “Johanna, where are you—“

“If you are pertaining to Lady Johanna, Messenger of Bahamut, you will not find her here,” says a familiar voice—an all too familiar voice at that.

You turn, and your heart plummets at the sight of the man before you.

“Ardyn?” you say doubtfully to the man who _is_ obviously Ardyn. Or at least, someone who uncannily looks just like him. It’s difficult to ascertain when this man of different hair and eye colour, of plain and pale clothing, carries a manner and bearing that is abysmally opposed to the Ardyn you have come to know. But there is no mistaking the sharp features of that face, the chiseled jaw, that gorgeous _mouth—_

“How do you know my name?” he asks curiously, his eyebrows furrowing in utter bewilderment. “When you fell from the sky, I can remember that we never had the chance for proper introductions—“

“I’m sorry—“ you raise one incredulous hand— “I fell from _where?”_

“The sky? Up there.” He points upward, as if unsure on how to tell you the most obvious of facts that the sky is blue, the sun is shining, and that the water is wet. Eerily enough, his tone is not of sarcasm nor condescension. It is simply voiced out of confusion, and a tinge of concern. As he makes his way over to you, he asks, “How are you feeling? I was worried that you might not wake up anytime soon. You have been unconscious for a day.”

_Worried?_ You gape at him—for the genuinely worried expression that mellowed his face, or for the fact that you have been knocked out cold for one whole day, you cannot entirely decide. “You can’t be fucking serious,” you say under your breath.

He looks at you strangely, purses his lip as if to consider your choice of words. “I’m afraid I am, uh, rather serious.” He clears his throat, reaches for your head but hesitates. “I have gathered herbs to help soothe the wound on your forehead. May I?” he asks.

You are uncertain on what to say—there are so many questions racing in your mind at an alarming speed, a series of _where am I? What year is it even? Why am I here?_ all at once _—_ that you stare at him for a painful second. And then another more.

Instead, your only meaningful response is a weak nod.

Ardyn ushers you underneath the willow tree, beckons for you to sit. “So, what business do you have with Lady Johanna?” Suddenly, the expression on his face is mired with a grave worry. “Please do not tell me you have offended her. She is not the type to be trifled lightly—“

“No, it’s nothing like that!” you say, way too defensively that Ardyn might have been convinced otherwise. “It’s… well. She’s the one who brought me here. I think. And she’s the only one who can explain what’s going on, why I’m here, and what I have to—“

You abruptly cut yourself off, sparing Ardyn a cautious glance. Of course. _He_ is the reason why you are here. The only problem now is, Johanna failed to brief you with the instructions. She did not even give you a clue on what you are supposed to do.

Ardyn hums pensively. “Well, she is back in the Capital. From here, the journey will take a fortnight by foot. Less than a week by chocobo.”

“And by _here,_ you mean where exactly?”

“Duskendale Forest. South of Lestall.”

Your eyes widen. The bare mention of the name _Lestall_ —Lestallum’s name in its nascent years—is enough for you to confirm that this place is somewhere out of your own time. He must have sensed your shock and unease that he says, “I know it’s a lot to take in, to be a stranger in a foreign place—but please, allow me to tend to your wounds.”

You say nothing. He begins to grind leaves in a wooden bowl as he goes on to tell you the circumstances that brought you here: how a flash of light brought you falling right in his camp, and how relieved he was when he checked your pulse. His voice, though it is as you remember it to be, is far gentler, far _kinder._ A solemn silence rests as you watch him prepare his balms. The smell of oil and lavender hangs rich and fragrant. It is unsettling to see _this_ version of Ardyn who is neither a stranger nor an enemy, neither a friend nor a lover.

A whiff of herbs linger as Ardyn leans over to you to unwrap your bandages. His sudden proximity makes you flinch, if only a little. If he even noticed it, he is kind enough not to say a word. With him _this_ close, almost a breath away, you cannot help but look at the deep blue of his eyes—a jarring sight to behold when amber is the colour you have grown to love on him. He spreads the salve over your forehead with a light and careful hand, and you try your best not to stare at his face too much. And also his mouth _. Especially_ his mouth. Gods. It goes without saying that you are failing this effort quite miserably when Ardyn catches your watchful gaze.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly. “Um—” you look away, training your eyes at the palm of your hands— “it’s, well… you remind me of someone I know.”

Ardyn only nods, his lips curving into a small smile. He begins to wrap a fresh strip of cloth around your head. Determined to change the subject, you bring yourself to ask, “So, how do you, um—how come you know how to do these things?”

“I was taught by good friends of mine,” he says. This time, a wide smile spreads across his face. “Troublesome pair of siblings, I should say, but they are quite generous to put up with me nonetheless.” He tucks the hem snugly under the wrap. “There, all done.”

“Thank you,” you say. Ardyn holds out his hand and helps you up. “So—“ you slightly fiddle with the bandage— “you don’t suppose you could accompany me to see Johanna? To this Capital you speak of?”

Something in the expression of his face turns cold and distant. “Do forgive me, but I fear that I won’t be much of help,” he says, avoiding your gaze. “There is somewhere else I need to be, a settlement up north that requires my aid.”

“Oh. Okay.” Your attempt not to seem disappointed is betrayed by the drop of your voice. Good thing that you are never the type to be disheartened so easily that you boldly suggest, “Then surely we can go to the Capital after that?”

_“We?”_ Ardyn lifts a curious brow. “You intend to join me in my travels?”

“Yes. Why ever not?”

“I am loath to put you in danger.”

“I’m used to danger, and I can protect myself just fine.”

“It may not seem like it, but the road ahead does not take kindly to strangers.”

“And I may not seem like it but I mean it when I say I can protect myself just fine,” you repeatedly insist. “I see that you are trying to persuade me from accompanying you.”

“And I see that it is clearly not working.” Ardyn sighs in resignation. “Are you always this difficult?”

_Not as difficult as you._ You shrug off the sudden pang of an endearing memory you thought you have forgotten. “I’d say I’m persistent,” you say evenly. “Look—” you rest your hands on your waist, firmly holding Ardyn’s gaze— “right now, I don’t know my way around here, and you are the only one who can bring me to Johanna. I don’t mind sticking around to see your business, if I have to. Just… please. I need your help.”

Ardyn considers you for a thoughtful moment. “Very well.” A kind smile graces his face. “But before anything else, you know of my name and yet I do not know yours.”

Against your mindless hesitation, you tell him. He repeats. To hear him say your name after such a long and grueling time, you might as well consider this a homecoming. A bittersweet return from exile. He never shies away from calling you by your name all throughout the tiresome journey, even as he asks you many other things: how you learned how to fight, who taught you how to pick up a sword, what meal you like best. You oblige him with answers. You share him tidbits of your life, and he shares his. The open road and the campfire bear witness to what has been said, a faithful audience to an unlikely companionship between a stranger and a healer. But the one thing he does not ask you is where you came from, or how you know of his name in the first place. You do not tell him. You choose not to. Not when it pains you to even try.

 

 

In the weeks that followed, you are no longer a stranger to Ardyn’s healing miracles.

The first time you witnessed it, you were just as skeptical as any scholarly scientist in Gralea. It is hard to believe that any man could relieve anyone’s illness with a single touch, let alone the lethal plague everyone calls the _scourge_. From one settlement to another, you have seen its fatalities. You have seen the ghastly faces of countless innocent men and women, young and elderly, who have been suffering from it. Those who have succumbed all faced the same fate of being turned into monsters. _Daemons._

But Ardyn, no matter how hapless the situation, attends to the needs of the afflicted. The ground does not tremble in his footsteps, nor does the sky thunder when he speaks. There is no spell nor spectacle. But one touch from him commands the sick to be well from the scourge’s curse.

Still, even after all is said and done, Ardyn chooses to do more. He does not rest. He knocks on every door, listens to every cry for help. He cares for people with the same utmost tenderness of a mother who nurses her child: gentle and patient, wielding a quiet and an unearthly compassion. You have taken it upon yourself to learn his way of crafting potions just so you could extend a helping hand to ease his burdens.

“I was supposed to be the one helping you, and now you are helping me,” Ardyn had said, when he first taught you how to brew the plants he had gathered from a nearby forest.

“It is the least I could do,” you had replied. “You are doing so much, and you’re only one man.”

Which is true. Too painfully true at that. He is only but one man, and he has chosen to bear this beast of a burden all by himself. He is used to doing things on his own. He offers everything he has to the people in need of him without expecting anything in return.

And so it brings you to wonder how this Ardyn before you—a simple man of noble solicitude, who cares deeply, who loves and loves and _loves_ to the point of his own ruin—could be the same vengeful person you saw that day sitting on the throne, seething in fury, wrathful in his spite towards his brother, his family, the rest of the world. _My brother wanted me to be the villain, then the villain I have become,_ he had said. You wonder why this once kind and selfless healer chose to ferment his anger and make himself a monster. _Hate is a strong word, but it is the only strength I have left,_ he had spat out. You wonder how one so blessed and sanctified could ever stumble to be so condemned and vilified. A saint turned sinner.

Perhaps good men—even the best of men, the most honourable of them—are still just men. Still just _human,_ in no way different from the rest of us. We may hold them at a pedestal, but they tiptoe on its edge. One false step is their fall from grace.

And how painful must it be to be so human, to be so fragile, in the face of such a godly burden.

 

 

In the small town of Steyliff, a few ways south of the massive ruins in the grove, more laborious days drifted. Ardyn never tires from reaching out to the villagers, and you support him in any way you can. This time around, he does not hesitate to accept your help. He lets you. While you hunt, he heals. The roots and herbs he forages, you prepare them for food and potions. No menial task is left undone. The town chief is generous enough to spare one of their stone huts, even if it is only at night that the two of you ever find a moment’s respite.

“About our journey to the Capital,” Ardyn begins to say one particular evening, firewood still in hand, “I’m afraid I can only accompany you as far as the outskirts of the city.” You immediately notice the tactfulness of his voice, the careful choice of words.

You look at him curiously, shifting a little in your seat. A cold breeze flutters from the window. The aroma of basil and Valerian root on the table wafts in your midst. “Okay. But may I ask why?”

He hesitates. You can see it in his eyes, even from the sickly glow of the lamplights that hung in the wooden ceiling, that he is slowly shaping his response. “It has been quite some time since I have returned to the city,” he says. He turns away, unloading the wood by the hearth. The fire crackles.

You swivel to face him. You might be inclined to believe that you have lost all form of prudence when you hear yourself say: “This is about your family, isn’t it? About your brother?”

The way Ardyn stiffens at the mention of it delivers a pang of guilt in your chest. “Indeed, it is,” he says, after a doleful pause. He takes the empty seat beside you, folds his hand over the table. A pensive look has settled on his face.

“Look, I know it’s not my business to be involved with your family affairs,” you say, “but can’t you talk this through? You are _brothers—_ bound by blood before anything else.”

“I know,” Ardyn says solemnly. “See, back when we were children that’s what we always cared about. Being together. When we first learned how to wield a sword, we vowed our blades to protect each other. To protect our family, to protect our people. Somnus proved to be much better than I was, but I didn’t mind. I was proud of him. Always was.” He pauses, and a sad smile passes over his face. “And yet, here we are. Separated by our differences that have been far greater than we had expected—“

“And that’s why you both need to _talk,”_ you say firmly. “Don’t you think it would be infinitely better if you both focus on the things that bring you together than what sets you apart? From what I can see, you both want the best for your people. Imagine the things you could both do, the lives you could change.”

Ardyn looks at you with a curious expression on your face. He says nothing, and dwells on a brief pause. Then, he says, “You always make a fine point.”

“I know.” You smile giddily at him. “So, is that a yes?”

“Yes to what?”

“Going to the Capital. Talking to your brother. And by talking, I mean with words and not with swords.”

“I’ll consider,” he hums, and you swat his arm. He laughs as he nods and says, “Alright, I promise.”

“Good,” you beam triumphantly.

“Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask…” Ardyn trails off, heaves a nervous breath before he continues, “You seem to know me well, even in the short weeks we have been together. Back in Myrl, I was actually surprised that you know what kind of wine I would like. It’s the little things, but seems to me you know me more than anyone I know.” He fixes his eyes on you, firm and curious. “Am I right to assume that you are not from _this_ time?”

The smile on your face falters. You say nothing. He waits for you to answer, yet you dither with the heavy silence.

When you fail to speak, he does on your behalf. “Are we… are we ever acquainted? In your time?”

The sigh that leaves you aches with longing. “Acquainted is an understatement,” you mutter. You cannot bring yourself to look at him, fearing he would see right through you, just like he always does.

The hearth hisses. The silence is more brooding than the last. Then, he asks, “Was I good… at least, to you? I mean, this _version_ of me that you know.”

You steel yourself to face him. “That _version_ of you has been a friend to me when I had no one else. He’s not an easy man, I should say. _You’re_ not an easy man.” You crack a small laughter, but the sound of your voice teeters on the edge of tears. “But still, even at his worst, I… I—”

“You loved me.”

The manner in which he says _me_ and the certainty in his voice only invites more reason for you to cry. Still, you force yourself to smile as you say, “I did. In fact, I still do.”

Ardyn does not permit another silence to stretch into a moment. He crosses the breathing space between the two of you, sealing his mouth on yours.

 

* * *

 

In the small town of Steyliff, Ardyn cherishes the sweeter days that meandered with you by his side.

At night, he delights crossing the hollows of your skin, feeling the warmth where his limbs tangled with yours. More often than not, for some reason, he would stay up and wait for you to lull into sleep. He does not know why, but he likes watching your face soften in the moonlight, listening to the quiet hum of your breathing. But out of all these things, Ardyn takes pleasure when you invite him to play this little game you seem to have invented for your own amusement. _Let’s plant kisses on our favourite parts,_ you would tell him, as if the two of you are voyagers weary and exhausted out at sea, finally finding land for the first time, keen and wanting to mark territories on each other’s bodies. His hands, arms, knees—all yours. Your lips, neck, thighs—all his.

Even if he closed his eyes, Ardyn no longer remembers what it was like to live without you. Your body is now his holy ground, and his is nothing but a fervent worshiper, only for you. Down on his knees, his head between your legs, is how he prays for the sound of his name on your lips. Your pleasure is his scripture. Let this be his gospel. Your mewling praise is the only one that matters. Not once did he ever consider himself being a holy man—not pious, not a devout, not at all righteous—but with you he finally understands why sacrifices are made at the altar, why crusaders march for faith, why people cling their lives onto religion. It is all for this. It is all for love.

 

* * *

 

One terribly sunny morning, as you return to Steyliff from a hunt, you are welcomed by the sight of Ardyn, who appears to be in a serious discussion with the town chief and a familiar woman.

The woman is not exactly familiar, so to speak. The woman happens to have an uncanny resemblance to Lady Lunafreya, but with much shorter hair and a certain lightheartedness in her bearing. You would have loved to introduce yourself, but when you overhear her referring to Ardyn as her _fiancé,_ you feel as if the world has stopped spinning on its axis.

“There she is,” the town chief calls out for you, and both Ardyn and the woman turn to your direction. Ardyn does not say a word, but the look on his face is just as inexpressibly dumbstruck as yours.

You give them a short and brief bow before you wordlessly take your leave, walking back to the hut with startling haste. You can feel your heart violently hammering against your chest, your breaths growing more and more uneven. You want to cry, but you could not bring yourself to do it. Instead, you sweep Ardyn’s vials of potions sitting on the table, shattering every fucking bottle you can possibly find. The rage is frothing at the tip of your tongue. Your hands tremble with the urge to destroy. You would have broken every single hard work you have done if Ardyn had not interrupted your catastrophic breaking spree.

“Stop—“ Ardyn grabs you, his one arm on your wrist and the other around your waist— “please, I can explain—“

“Explain what exactly?” You shove him aside, your voice is as scathing as a newly whetted blade. The sound of a departing carriage occupies the silence. “Ardyn, you had all these months—all this fucking time, gods be good—to tell me that you are engaged to be _married._ Fucking hell—“ you draw an exasperated breath, squeezing your eyes shut— “I have always assumed that you were a jackass in your past life, and I shouldn’t have been surprised to find out it’s fucking true—“

“I am so sorry, I really am, but please—“ Ardyn raises his voice, pleading, begging— “if you can just _listen to me—_ I’ve been meaning to tell you about Aera, but— _“_

“But what?” You jab a finger on his chest, seething. “You needed a good fuck, huh? Test the waters whether you’re sure she’s the right one? So what, everytime you kissed me, were you thinking of her? When you’re inside me, were you imagining her—”

“Do not dare say _that,”_ Ardyn says, his voice surprisingly grittier, sharper. He takes you in his arms, wrapping you in a firm embrace. “I love Aera, yes, that much is true. But not in the way you think. Not in the way that I love _you._ Because you—“ his breath cracks, his lips now quivering with every word— “I will move heaven and earth if that’s what it takes for you to believe me that I only want to be yours.”

Truth be told, the thing you really to want say next is, _Let go of me. I’m tired of getting hurt by you. This is not going to last._ This is the most logical thing you could ever grant yourself, for both of your sakes.

But love knows no logic. Love traps the words in your mouth because love knows that what you wanted to say may be logical, but that is not the truth. Because the truth will always be this: you do not want to let go of him. You would rather be hurt by him than anyone else. You know that this time with him is not going to last, but you’re sure as hell going to make it count.

So in your silence, he crushes his lips with yours. You let him. You kiss him deeper, your hands weaving through his hair. He moves you to the bed, peels you off your clothes, his kisses arriving in a boatload to the shores of your skin, returning home to his favourite parts. Lips, neck, thighs—all his and only his.

To hell with the saints. To hell with the martyrs. If this love is this sinful, you are willing to suffer for it until it nearly kills you.

“Do you still intend to go to the Capital?” Ardyn asks as you rest your head on his chest, your body pressing closer to his. He knows as much as you do what the trip to the Capital means, and there is a silent plea in his voice that seems to beg, _Please stay. Just a little while. Just a little longer._

“I have to,” is what you force yourself to say. “And _you_ have to. You told me you are going to speak to your brother.”

“I don’t remember saying something—“

You playfully poke his chest. “Ardyn, you _promised.”_

He laughs. “Very well,” he says finally. He presses a kiss on your forehead. “We leave on the morrow, my love.”

 

* * *

 

Ardyn keeps his word and accompanies you to the Capital. A long journey, to be sure—more than just a fortnight, opting to take pit stops in between to rest, or most often, to make sweet love underneath the night sky wild with stars—but you both gladly make it in the metropolis in one piece. He takes you past the main thoroughfare, and into the grandness that is the Caelum Manor.

“Holy fuck, this is where you live?” You let the image before you sink in: a massive iron gate, a sylleblossom field for a front lawn, bleach white columns, the ivory walls. You suddenly wonder where all of this has ended up in the present time, but you decide against dwelling on the miserable thought.

“Well, I used to,” he says, visibly amused by your surprise. “Come—“ with a smile on his face, he takes your hand, laces his fingers with yours— “Lady Johanna usually stays in the west wing.”

He walks you through the great halls, and he leads you inside a large chamber teeming with bookshelves that could only be the manor’s library. In the midst of the rows of oaken desks and the glorious scent of old books and parchment, there in the middle of this grandness is an old woman with the distinctly silver hair and elegant face that could be no other than Johanna. She first appears to be busily leafing through the pages of a thick volume, with Aera closely behind her, keenly observing, lips pressed into clinical concentration.

The moment you and Ardyn walk into the room, their attention is immediately drawn to the two of you.

“Finally!” Aera excitedly runs toward Ardyn, throwing her arms around him and pressing a kiss on his cheek. Your hands unknowingly tighten around the hem of your shirt.

Meanwhile, Johanna warmly welcomes Ardyn with an embrace. “You have been gone for far too long,” she tells him as Ardyn slightly lowers himself just for Johanna to cup his face in the palm of her hands. “Oh, my dear boy. You have grown more mature, I see.”

“I apologize for worrying you, my lady,” Ardyn says, pressing a kiss on her forehead. “If I may, Lady Johanna, I brought someone who is keen to meet you—“ he turns, and he smiles at you. He takes your hand again in his as he introduces you to Johanna and Aera. His _fiancée._

As courtesies and pleasantries are exchanged, Johanna does not seem to bear any recollection of you. If she feigns indifference, she expertly keeps her expression stern and neutral, not a single hint betraying the lines under her sharp blue eyes. Meanwhile, in Aera, you see no signs of contempt. You wish there was. If she hides any ill-advised feelings against you, she is entitled to it—but it irks you that she hides it well. Woman to woman, you know that she _knows._ One furtive and knowing glance is enough.

Johanna reaches for your arm, ushers you by her side. “The journey must have exhausted you, child,” she tells you kindly, a more gentler expression easing on her face.

“It’s quite alright,” you say, smiling sheepishly. “There is a matter of urgency in the subject that I wish to speak with you. I came here as soon as I am able.”

Johanna nods pensively. “I suppose you may leave us now,” she tells Ardyn. “Us women have a lot to catch up on.”

“Understood.” Ardyn smiles, offers a short bow. A vague uneasiness stirs. He does not know that he is about to leave you in a den of lionesses, but you do.

“And please, meet with Somnus,” Johanna urges sharply. “He is at the pavilion with Gilgamesh and Circe. Your willful brother is up to something and I do not like it. Talk some sense to him, I beg you.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Ardyn says, before he shuts the door, leaving behind the echo of a soft, hushed _click._

Johanna and Aera leads you to a small round table. “We have been expecting you,” Johanna says. “Please, do be seated—“

“I think I’ll prefer standing, if you don’t mind,” you say, almost too curtly.

Johanna and Aera trade glances. “We are not enemies, I can assure you,” Aera says with a kind smile. She walks over to you in graceful strides. She is so beautiful you can hardly stomach it. “And I believe we have met, yes? Back in Steyliff?”

“Yes.” You purse your lip, gathering every effort to maintain your tact. “I… I must apologize if I have left without properly introducing myself.”

“That’s quite alright.” Aera nods agreeably. “You know, I have seen your face in my visions. I did not expect that it will be through Ardyn that we will be finally meeting.”

It is impossible to tell with Aera’s mild manner if there is a knife well-hidden in the way she mentions Ardyn’s name. If there is, she has earned every right to wield it.

“You seem to be taking this all too well,” you hear yourself say too pointedly. Perhaps it is _you_ who is wielding a blade after all.

Aera nods, a private gesture, as if in confirmation. “You are far too kind to consider me so,” she says. “But it is rather difficult, as it is for you. Here we both are, in love with the same man, desperate to save him from such a cruel fate. And I love him. And I know that he loves me.” Now, _that_ is a knife in plain sight. “But you… the love he has for you is something else entirely. And between the two of us, it seems that you are the only one who is truly able to free him from the curse that awaits him.”

Setting aside Aera’s candid frankness, it did not take long for the realization to dawn on you. “So you _know.”_ You look at Aera, then at Johanna. “You _both_ know.”

A tensed silence drifts, one that is swiftly broken when Johanna begins to speak. “I must confess, I have seen many iterations of what the future holds.” A solemn expression has graced her face. “Quite frankly, I am strictly forbidden to speak of it, let alone to exercise my own accord to bend the universe to change the course of time. It is the will of the Draconian. I am to do nothing until I am to do what I was told. That is my calling as _his_ Messenger.

“But as a Messenger, it is also my calling to guide and protect. To offer my counsel, to be the bridge between gods and men. We tiptoe in a never-ending paradox, but it is the very nature to which my brethren and I are created. And throughout these endless years of mine, to have been tasked to protect this royal line of kings and queens have been both my greatest joy and sorrow.” The solemnity of her face drifts into a wistful smile. “See, I am no mother, but Ardyn and Somnus—bless those precious boys, though men grown they may have become—are the closest I have to sons. I never wished for them to have gone down the path of ruin, the one you have seen in your lifetime.

“And seeing you here… Long have I waited for this day.” She rests her hands on your shoulders. “I have gambled and risked all that I am to bring you here, and forgive me for doing it in such a fashion, for keeping you in the dark. I had to.”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean exactly?” Out of the corner of your eye, you see Aera’s face shift to a more grave expression.

“Had I told you what was in store,” Johanna says, “you would have hesitated. You would not have done what you did today, persuading Ardyn to return here with you.” She holds your hand, firmer this time. “But I must tell you the truth, for you deserve nothing less: I know you are hoping for me to bring you back to your time, but I’m afraid I cannot do so. You being here is a ripple and crease, one that affects your existence and mine. Which means—“

“I will cease to exist.” The finality of your words barely scratch the surface of the hollow feeling that suddenly gutted you.

“And so will I,” says Johanna. “I will face judgment of my lord father soon. But that does not matter to me. I am prepared to face his wrath. I do not regret any of the things I have done. I could only hope you can forgive me, in another lifetime at the very least.”

You nod, staring vacantly at Johanna, then Aera. Perhaps you have known this all along. How it all makes sense. How things like these always come with its consequences. Frankly, against all your fears, you have been willing to pay the price of it all along.

Love _really_ does make the smartest of men the dumbest of fools.

Though the shock is numbing, the one thing that you manage to ask is: “But Ardyn… will he be fine?”

“Yes.” Johanna smiles. “He will be. _They_ both will be.”

“Then I suppose that is good enough for me,” you say, your voice nothing but resolute.

 

* * *

 

Ardyn looks out the window of his bedchamber, struggling to admire the Capital in its prosperous glory. It has been ten years since the steady rise of the city to become the melting pot of commercial affairs, and the crown on his head weighs heavier in each passing moment. The bustling plaza, the marketplace, statues and monuments of marble and gold, the pristine shrines and temples all seem to fall in lackluster before his very eyes.

In the midst of his ruminations, Somnus makes his approach, quiet and wary. But Ardyn is aware of his brother’s presence, stealthy as he may claim himself to be.

“Have you ever been in love, brother?” Ardyn suddenly asks out of nowhere. He does not turn. His gaze is still fixed on the thoroughfare.

“Now that is an interesting way to say hello, Your Majesty,” Somnus says, his voice clear with sheer amusement. “Now, where is that question coming from?”

“Simply out of curiosity,” says Ardyn. He faces Somnus, and he is greeted by that snarky smile of his.

“Well, it’s been a long time since my elder brother has been keen to know my state of personal affairs,” Somnus says dryly, taking a seat on the velvet couch by the bed. “But this isn’t about me. So, how’s Aera? Heard from the attendants about the morning sickness.”

“She’s doing well, in spite of it all,” says Ardyn so simply. A strange silence rests. Somnus regards Ardyn with a painfully knowing smile.

“You still think about _her,_ don’t you?” Somnus asks. His face has turned more concerned, more solemn.

Ardyn avoids his brother’s burning gaze. The memory of you disappearing without a trace is a bright specter that still demands to be felt, even after all this time. And as if by some cruel jape, a whiff of lavender and earth drifts through the window, that he is suddenly taken aback on those nights in Steyliff, your face, your smile. Something in him aches, painfully and brutally so.

And so Ardyn does not look at his brother. He chooses to fix his eyes out the window. “Not a day goes by that I don’t,” he tells Somnus. “And I suppose it is her that I will ever think about for the rest of my days.”

 


	3. Future

It is the beginning of a hopeful tale. At least, that’s what it all feels like as you are watching the royal wedding of Prince Noctis to Princess Lunafreya of Tenebrae from the balcony of the Caelum Cathedral. Frankly, fancy events such as these should not have been your first assignment on your first day in Meteor Publishing, considering how you just recently moved to the city from the backwater isles of Galahd, but Vyv insisted nonetheless. You had no choice but to oblige.

The ceremonies seem to drone into dull perpetuity. Even the groom is struggling to stay awake. You feel for his agony, though—you yourself try your best not to doze off as well. The only thing keeping you from falling asleep is how your dress is starting to itch in all the wrong places. You can only hope for the groom’s behalf that the camera is panning somewhere else; to have one’s wedding broadcasted on national television might be appealing to others, but from where you are sitting, Prince Noctis seems to be eager to have all of this done and over with.

In any case, apart from the boring rituals taking place, there are so many things that seem to feed your discomfort. For one, you are weirdly uncomfortable with how everywhere seems to smell strongly of candles and flowers. Too many flowers—orchids, roses, lavender. You love flowers, but this is all _too_ much. Then there’s the incessant chatter: women talking in hushed whispers, old men trading anecdotes, the choir boys who have finally settled in their seats. Though admittedly, you cannot help but eavesdrop to the conversation of a young couple behind you, rather than listening to the minister speaking fervently on the pulpit.

“You know, I read somewhere that the first king of Lucis was also married to the Oracle, but it was said that he was completely unhappy with that union,” says the man, his voice low and husky.

“Really? The Founder King? Didn’t we see one of his portraits in the Royal Museum of Lucis? I have to say, the Duke of Cavaugh bears a striking resemblance,” replies the woman a matter-of-factly.

_“Fuck,”_ you mutter to yourself, but the woman beside you gives you a sharp glance. You offer her an apologetic bow. Somehow, you are beginning to reconsider how foolish you have been to take on this assignment. _Duke of Cavaugh, Princess of Tenebrae, Prince of Lucis. I really have no idea with these royal titles, gods help me today,_ you think to yourself. You probably should have brushed up on some Lucian history, but it is too late for that now.

As soon as the ceremony is over—thank the gods!—you weave your way past the guests, say a couple of pleasantries here and there. In your exchanges with a few acquaintances in the Glaive—thank the heavens Libertus and Nyx are on duty, fellow Galahdians you can trust with your life—they generously give you a quick debrief on the important people, pointing out the ones that seem to bear the most authority. You try your best to remember the names. Sylva Via Fleuret—Queen of Tenebrae. Camelia Claustra—First Secretary of Accordo. Gladiolus Amicitia, and his father Clarus—Shields to Prince Noctis and King Regis, respectively. The list of names and titles goes on and on that you try to jot them all on your phone. Shortly after, you make a beeline for your car and drive straight into the reception—which, thankfully, does not disappoint with their overflowing supply of alcohol. You know very well that you will need every ounce of energy socializing with these higher echelons for your feature article, and to do so, you will need to do it with a glass of champagne in hand.

Planting yourself on the barseat, all by your lonesome, you watch as everyone else enjoys the festivities. The bartender—a young redhead, freckled and scrawny in his suit—is kind enough to welcome your company that he generously brings you another glass. Before you, the warm glow of the fairylights casts the evening into a certain kind of magic. The scent of flowers hang in the air, sweet and fragrant. The music aches a soulful love song as Prince Noctis and Princess Lunafreya take their first dance. They look so incandescently happy and so wretchedly in love, and yet something about their happiness draws out a ghostly pang in your chest. A sudden bite of nostalgia that you cannot name.

_Maybe I just had too much to drink—_

“Is this seat taken?” Someone clears their throat. You almost fall on your own seat when you turn to see a handsome man— _insanely_ handsome, with striking amber eyes and wine red hair he has scrumptiously tied in a bun—all dressed in a sharply-tailored suit. He is smiling at you, and you wonder how long he had been standing there trying to get your attention.

You nervously gesture a hand to the seat next to you. “Um, yeah. Sure—“

“Oh, Your Highness!” The bartender says chirpily. “What can I get you?”

“Wait—“ you raise a finger, skating a curious glance to the handsome fellow beside you— _“Your Highness?”_ The way you blurt it out is an obvious question that the bartender gapes at you as if you came from another planet. _Fuck._ Congratulations are in order for successfully making yourself look like a complete idiot.

“You don’t know _him?”_ The red-headed bartender says incredulously. “Gods be good, this is Lord Ardyn. The king’s brother. The Duke of—”

“Do spare me the titles, my friend,” the man named Ardyn says amiably. “Though I must admit, being called _‘the king’s brother’_ is much better than being referred to as the prince’s uncle. Makes me seem younger.” Ardyn shoots you a cheeky wink. Then, to the bartender, he says, “Anyway, if you would be so kind as to bring two glasses of—“ he eyes your empty glass of champagne— “whatever she was having, please.”

“Of course.” The bartender nods and scuttles off to the other side of the bar.

“I’m sorry about that,” Ardyn says way too regretfully. “Didn’t think he would make a fuss.”

“I should be the one apologizing, shouldn’t I?” you tell him. “Where I come from, I was not raised getting acquainted with the lords and ladies of this land, as there are far other pressing concerns we had to attend to. Like farming. And making a living,” you add all too defensively.

Ardyn laughs. He leans back against the counter, one elbow propping to his chin. “I… Have we met?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “I don’t think we have.”

“You’re right.” He nods thoughtfully. “If I ever did, I would never dare to forget such a lovely face.”

“Right.” Heaven forbid the blush on your cheeks that all you could do is to roll your eyes. “How charming.”

A smirk tugs the corners of his mouth. “So you think I’m charming?”

“No.”

“Even in this nice suit?”

“No.”

“Really? Not even slightly handsome?”

He is clearly right about everything, but you do not give him the pleasure of indulging his vanity. “No,” you say again. “At this rate, I’d say you’re—what’s the word—” you feign ignorance, drumming a finger against your chin— “oh, right. _Difficult.”_

Ardyn shakes his head, but the smile on his face is broader—and irritatingly more charming—than the first. “Well, I suppose we have something in common, then.”

You say nothing. Even so, you cannot contain the smile on your face. The bartender returns with the drinks, and slides the pair of glasses to the both of you. Ardyn takes his, while you take yours. “Anyway,” Ardyn says, “I don’t think I caught your name yet. Allow me to start over—“ he holds out his hand to you— “The name’s Ardyn. Not the first of my name, sadly, but doesn’t really matter.”

You consider him for a moment before you take his hand. You tell him your name, and he repeats it. Perhaps it is the alcohol, or maybe the syrupy jazz music that leaks in the background, or the warmth of his hand on yours. But the way he says your name feels like a surreal homecoming. A much awaited return from exile, one that seems to echo, _I am back, here I am, I have waited for you all my life._

 


End file.
